2.
2.
[Kung—!]
The force pressing beyond the round wooden shield clutched in my left hand was quite heavy.
"Raaaargh—!"
[Thwack!]
The warrior, unable to withstand my strength and losing his balance, widened the distance between us. At the very same moment I heard the dull sound of the axe he swung wildly to buy time biting into the leather rim of my shield—
"Hup—!"
My body, long accustomed to combat, seemed to need no separate commands from left or right brain.
It naturally rotated my hips smoothly, transmitting that rotational force to my right shoulder and the solid fist extending beyond it.
[Smack—!]
A picture-perfect right straight, the rotational force literally starting from the knees and passing through the hips, the body doing nothing but guiding its path forward.
"—Ack!"
It happened in an instant after the shields met, and so the warrior's body, his right hand still exerting force on the axe embedded in my shield, collapsed powerlessly onto the dirt floor.
Thud—
"Hoo—"
'I never knew it would become so natural to fell a man in a single breath...'
The name of the one who had fallen was Stórolf, son of Orm, the 112th—or perhaps 113th—challenger, and the son of a veteran I had seen a few times at the Thing.
I'd heard he was also seventeen this year, the same age as me, and his build was good and his strength considerable, so with a little refinement he seemed likely to become a fearsome warrior.
"Waaaa—!"
"That's it! Now that's a man!"
"Jarl Helgi—! Jarl Helgi—!"
"The gods are watching! Tyr! Do you see this clearly! Bless these honorable warriors!"
People usually think of rough, hardy warriors when they think of Norsemen, but in truth—as was the case in most of Europe at this time—the people surrounding this arena were all farmers, and simultaneously domestic craftsmen, livestock breeders, and small-time merchants.
"Wahahaha—! Look here, Orm—! Two streams of blood run from your son's nose! This is a good omen! The gods have foretold another year of abundant harvest!"
"Ah, damn it..."
The murmuring voices of the pleasantly drunk old-timers reached me among the people roaring all manner of cries and cheering—Hrólfr, the chancellor my father had appointed as guardian and administrator of our jarldom, responsible for all manner of affairs, and Orm, the father of Stórolf who was now squirming pitifully on the dirt floor.
'Since when did my duels become an event for divining the year's harvest?'
And for that matter, whether a nose bled or a few teeth flew out, the harvest had always been abundant, so didn't that mean it had nothing whatsoever to do with this duel?
'Maybe these people just enjoy the spectacle of a fight in and of itself.'
In truth, the first thirty bouts or so had been extraordinarily brutal and grave duels.
Because the warriors from all across the land who looked down on me or had too much faith in their own strength, even if their opponent was the son of a king who dominated this region, did not particularly hold back their hands so long as it was a sacred duel fought for honor.
Just as battle differs from training, I could easily distinguish an attack meant to kill me from an attack meant to purely test skill.
And as a result, blessed as I was with countless combat traits like [Composure], [Valor], and [Intimidation], whatever trickery they attempted, I dispatched them to Valhalla in a single stroke.
And after those reeking, bloody thirty bouts that still passed through people's lips to this day, no more marketplace ruffians came seeking Helgi Ragnarsson of Árós.
However, afterward, powerful warriors genuinely seeking honor, or veteran warriors whose honed skills and terrible misfortune had so unhappily (?) yet to set foot in Valhalla, or promising prospects with high potential like Stórolf who had just been knocked flat by my fist—those kinds began to seek me out.
As a result, a neologism came into being—the so-called 'Duel of Árós'. Thanks to that, my record had at some point reached 112? 113 bouts.
"Uuuugh..."
The sun shining bright as befitted the second month of summer. Beneath it, a blond giant with deeply furrowed brow squirmed.
"Are you coming to?"
"Ugh—"
With an expression suggesting roughly ten minutes of memory had been wiped clean, seventeen-year-old Stórolf checked his surroundings and re-established his identity, then gave a startled flinch and hurriedly tried to rise to his feet.
"The fight...! The fight...?"
"You fought well, Stórolf, son of Orm."
"Yes...?"
When I hauled the still-staggering Stórolf upright and set him on his feet, he seemed to gradually regain his senses.
"Ah—. That is so. I have lost, Jarl Helgi."
Grin—.
Though his bowl-cut hair and neat beard had been slightly smeared by the two streams of crimson flowing beneath his swollen right nostril,
Stórolf's expression as he smiled a still-impressive smile and humbly accepted defeat seemed almost buoyant.
"The rumors do not remotely do justice. You are truly the 'strongest' among us."
Only now did Stórolf, who even in his fall had not let go of his axe, set it down and display the utmost veneration toward me.
An unbelievable silence descended for an instant upon the square, which had been raucous with the crowd's cheers.
'I'm not quite sure how it came to this...'
The desires and creativity of living, breathing people always exceeded my expectations.
Who could have known that a fight begun to defend my mother's honor would become a city event, and furthermore lead to the creation of what was essentially a standing army?
In order to satisfy the eyes of the people brimming with anticipation, I carried out a traditional performance (?) that had been ongoing since roughly the 50th duel.
"Kneel, Stórolf, son of Orm."
"!!"
As his two bright blue eyes rippled with violent emotion and he hastily folded both knees, the cold, sharp blade of my sword approached and touched his right shoulder.
"Stórolf. This sword now laid upon your shoulder holds the sacred power of a Jarl, bestowed upon me by the goddess Hel, who is mistress and mother to all the dead, and by the people of her most faithful city, Árós."
"I like this part the best."
"Shh!"
A well-forged sword gifted by the Árós Thing in recognition of my legitimacy as ruler.
Through it, Stórolf's trembling was transmitted, and the gazes and voices of the people watching this entire spectacle vividly were carried upon the gentle breeze.
"Can you swear henceforth never to turn your back in battle, and to render eternal loyalty, living or dead, to Hel, her city, and its Jarl?"
"Living, and dead. I swear loyalty to the goddess Hel and to you, Helgi."
He might well have hesitated at least once. Yet the people of this warrior society were not unfamiliar with matters of death and the handling of their own lives.
"Then rise, Stórolf. As a son of Hel. As a member of the Garmr Brotherhood."
I lifted the sword resting on Stórolf's shoulder—he who would now be part of the city's militia and standing army, and a member of my administrative-military-economic-welfare bureaucracy—and lightly pressed it upon his opposite shoulder and crown before withdrawing the blade and raising him up.
"Thank you. Jarl Helgi."
The warrior, who had wholly shed the traces of boyhood, showed me openly through his piercing blue eyes both the relief of one who had passed a difficult trial and the emotion only one bearing a great sense of duty could carry.
'That makes sixty now?'
The sixtieth warrior, was it.
Did that hold any special meaning?
Perhaps if I watched a little longer, I would be able to tell what this young warrior named Stórolf would be capable of.
Still, for this moment at least, let me push aside all manner of miscellaneous problems—the budget going to the militia, the matters concerning my marriage that kept coming up as an agenda item in the council (no doubt heavily influenced by my mother's breath behind it).
"Eyyaaah—!"
"Stórolf! Son of Hel! Son of Orm!"
"Glory to Hel! Glory to Árós!"
"Oh—what a truly honorable day!"
For now, all I had to think about was celebrating this greenhorn acolyte's induction.
While I grasped and raised the hand of Stórolf, who wore a deeply moved expression amid the cheering throng, and answered the crowd's acclaim, I suddenly spotted, behind the third row, a face that looked heavily familiar shouting at the top of its lungs.
"Ah! Bragi! God of my inspiration! Behold these two warriors! Grant me inspiration! Let me sing of their glory!"
Judging by the fact that he was already half-gone, he had drunk far too much, and
this man with the enraptured expression, who had charged up the ultimate in nationalistic fervor from the glorious battle moments before and the faux knight-investiture ceremony localized for Norsemen, thus reaching a kind of spiritual nirvana, was unmistakably...
'Sigurd? What is he doing here?'
It was unmistakably my half-brother, Sigurd.
"Stórolf, why don't you go to your father now?"
"Ah, ah? Yes. Understood. Jarl Helgi!"
The generous applause directed at him from the people seemed to have been too great a stimulation. Stórolf looked a little stunned.
"Good. Drink your fill today, and come see Hrólfr at my hall tomorrow. He will tell you what needs to be done."
After I gave the back of the rapidly nodding newcomer a hearty slap, leaving behind a single screamed "Ack—!" from Stórolf,
I passed through the crowd parting left and right, all gazing at me with longing eyes, climbed the steps, and came before Sigurd, who was playing the harp.
"Here, in this note— no, that's not it. A little more intensely—"
"Sigurd."
[Diring— Diring—]
"Good, good—"
"Sigurd!"
I lightly shook the shoulder of the half-baked harpist who thought himself a genius musician and called his name loudly.
"Hm? Oh— my brother! Helgi!"
An impressive man with blond hair brighter even than Stórolf's, who down below was being mobbed by people and locked in a tearful embrace with his father, and striking green eyes. Sigurd.
"What song shall I compose and dedicate to you, who has already become a legend in life!"
Smiling a handsome smile that had to be called radiant rather than simply bright, Sigurd was famous enough just for that outstanding appearance, but he had an even more conspicuous trait, which was—
"How regrettable it is! For a warrior such as you, Odin himself would come out to greet you with open arms at the very entrance of Valhalla! And yet your soul already belongs to the goddess Hel!"
A serpent pattern coiled as if wrapping around those gleaming green eyes. My brother had a snake in his eye.
"Odin would regret it, having to receive a bungling bard such as you into His hall."
"What? Haha—! Haha! You truly know nothing of art! Helgi!"
This cheerful elder brother clasped my arm, shook it lightly, and grinned a mischievous smile.
"If only I had the chance, I would tell you in full detail how the maidens of Zealand to the widows of Uppsala praised my songs!"
The serpent in his gleaming eyes seemed almost to squirm alive.
A charm befitting a renowned playboy to match his outstanding looks. Only, to me, it was just repulsive.
"Sigurd..."
When I grimaced and removed my clasped hand, Sigurd cackled again and turned his body first.
As I matched his stride and followed him into the road heading toward the city center, the guards who had been waiting here and there around the arena fell in around us.
"No troubles at Roskilde, I take it?"
I'd meant to ask how things stood with that daughter of a Jutes tribe chieftain he'd been seeing, but I let it go.
Sigurd was Sigurd, but according to the rumors, that Jutes chieftain's daughter was no ordinary woman in her own romantic history, so it seemed I was unlikely to hear a clean story.
"Of course, Helgi."
[Diring— Diriring—]
The fingers dancing along the harp strings in time with his light steps were fairly graceful. His casually tossed words always carried half a smile.
"That village stands as firmly as the southern wall. It is exceedingly peaceful, unlike this place..."
As he trailed off, Sigurd's eyes took in the heart of Árós, which had drawn close before we knew it.
A place that a mere ten years ago had been nothing more than a relay town for Uppsala, a tiny fishing village.
Now it was a place that endlessly drew people in with an incalculable abundance. The vitality of a growing city was etched plainly onto the faces of those coming and going.
"Now, let us hurry, Helgi. I have many things to tell! And as it happens, I have also prepared a song to sing for our third mother!"
I thought for once he looked serious, but as I expected. The back of Sigurd's head as he abruptly began humming and hurried forward, saying he had a song to offer to Mother.
Beyond it, I saw my mother, who had come out before the city gates and was awaiting her son's return.
Her familiar deep blue dress, her jet-black hair showing strands of gray here and there.
My quickening steps easily overtook Sigurd, who was already beginning to strum his harp.